Vegetable Broth

With the increased interest in vegetarian and vegan diets in recent times, you will find more and more recipes calling for vegetable broth instead of, or as alternative to, the more traditional meat broths. 

When I make vegetable broth, I always begin with the usual aromatic vegetables that go into a classic, traditional meat-based broth: onion, carrot and celery, along with the usual spices and herbs: parsley, bay leaf, a few cloves and whole peppercorns. To this I add one or two waxy, yellow-fleshed potatoes and tomatoes, fresh ones in summer, canned out of season—or cherry tomatoes, which always seem to be available and often have better taste than other varieties. 

On to this base of classic vegetables, you can now add a few vegetables in season. The beauty of a vegetable broth, like minestrone, is that it can subtly change from season to season, according to what you find the market. This week's vegetable broth included some mushrooms, some peeled baby yams and a leaf or two of Tuscan kale. 

While the basic method is essentially the same as for meat-based broths, vegetable broth is, if anything, easier. You cover the ingredients with cold water, salt well and bring to a simmer, but there is no need to skim the broth (with no blood to coagulate no scum will form) and and 1-2 hours will be quite enough cooking time. To bring out full flavor, use more solid to liquid than you would for a meat broth and use an ample amount of salt. 

NOTES: Vegetable broth can be used in all of the same ways as meat broths, although I find that it is particularly apt for making risotto. To my mind, it is less successful in clear soups. 

You can vary the vegetables according to the season and your mood. Leeks give the broth a mellow and savory flavor. Bell peppers, if used with discretion, can add a nice zesty edge. I always like to add some leafy vegetables to a vegetable broth, but it is best to use them discreetly. Too much and the broth will take on a greenish tinge. Escarole and chicory, swiss chard are particularly flavorful. In the warmer months, vegetables like zucchini and spinach. 

Some vegetables do not really lend themselves to broth. I avoid cruciferous vegetables like cauliflower, broccoli or the like, as they have an overpowering flavor that will throw the flavors out of balance. Eggplant can make the broth bitter, while fennel, I find, is a bit too sweet. Artichokes and asparagus are just too expensive to use for broth, at least for my money.

Funghi trifolati

This is one of the easiest and most versatile vegetable dishes in the Italian repertoire: funghi trifolati, or 'truffled' mushooms, so called because the thinly sliced and sautéed mushrooms are said to resemble that other, more highly prized tuber. I use two methods to make funghi trifolati, and both are equally easy:

Using the traditional recipe (pictured above), you thinly slice your mushrooms, then sauté them over a lively flame in olive oil and a clove of garlic. (If you want a little heat, you can add a peperoncino or some red pepper flakes.) Sprinkle the mushroom slices with a pinch of salt right away—this will cause the mushroom to exude its juices. In just a few minutes, the juices will evaporate and you will begin to hear the mushrooms start to sizzle and lightly brown. Once that happens, add some finely chopped parsley and, if you like, freshly ground pepper, and serve. 

I also like to use a more 'refined' variation: you sauté the mushroom slices in a mixture of olive oil and butter (omitting the garlic) and when you get to the sizzling stage, add finely chopped shallot and parsley. Sauté a minute or two further to cook the shallot and serve. 

NOTES: In Italy, the typical mushroom for this dish would be porcini. But I find these methods work with every kind of mushroom I've tried. Even the rather wan 'button' mushrooms seems to develop some lovely flavor when made this way. If using garlic, you can add it slightly crushed, chopped or still in its jacket, depending on the result you are looking for: chopping will give you the most assertive garlic flavor (but be careful to avoid burning the garlic); leaving the jacket, of course, produces the most subtle effect (just remember to remove the garlic before serving); personally, I like the 'middle way' of using a peeled and slightly crushed garlic clove (which, by the way, I don't remove unless company is coming).

Some recipes call for covering the pan and braising the mushrooms in some liquid (eg, white wine) for 15 minutes or more after an initial sauté over gentle rather than lively heat, but I prefer the methods mentioned here. The mushrooms are perfectly tender after an initial sauté over high heat, and indeed tend to become mushy if you let them cook too long. 

Funghi trifolati, in either version, makes for a great Fall or Winter contorno with just about any meat dish. It can also be added to stews, fricasées and sautés. (It's particularly nice with sautéed chicken.) 

 

With a little additional oil or butter, funghi trifolati make a wonderful sauce for pasta or gnocchi or even polenta, just by itself (see this post on strozzapreti ai funghi and the photo of linguine ai funghi above) or in combination with tomatoes (see this post on penne ai funghi) or, particularly in the 'refined' version, with the addition of broth and/or cream that you then reduce down to a nice saucy consistency (see this post on gnocchi ai funghi). The latter mushroom cream sauce is wonderful with meat also, as in this post on gratinéed ox tongue. 

It's really up to you—this dish is a starting point for all sorts of creativity in the kitchen.

Pasta a risotto

One of the guilty pleasures that I have never, up to now, revealed to a living soul is my penchant for late-night pasta snacks. But not just any pasta, but pastina of the kind usually used for soups, cooked in just enough liquid (usually a mixture of water and milk) so that by the time the liquid has almost evaporated, the pasta if cooked and a creamy 'sauce' remains. I enrich the dish with a dab of butter and a spoonful of grated cheese just before pouring the concoction into a bowl and eating it greedily with a spoon. 

I have always kept my love of this little mock baby-food to myself. After all, serious foodies do not indulge in such trifles, right? And, worse still, the method violates just about every traditional rule about the proper preparation of pasta. But then, not so long ago, while shopping for some new cookbooks in Rizzoli in New York, I stumbled across a book that a friend from Rome had heartily recommended to me, Cuochi si diventa by Milanese gastronome Allan Bay. As I leafed through the book, I found a chapter entitled "Mania dell'autore: la pasta a risotto" and, lo and behold, I found recipes for something very much like my late-night pastina…

Pasta a risotto means, loosely translated, pasta prepared in the manner of a risotto. And indeed, the method is very similar, if not identical. You begin with a soffritto of minced onion sweated in butter, then add whatever condimento you wish—this time I used swiss chard leaves finely cut into a chiffonade—and allow it to insaporire (absorb the flavor of the soffritto) for a few minutes. Then add your pasta—I used orzo, also known as risoni—and just enough broth or water to cover the pasta. (NB: Unlike a risotto, there is no need to allow the pasta to 'toast' nor to add wine.) As for any risotto, you add successive ladlefuls of liquid as the prior ones evaporate, until the pasta is cooked al dente. Most but not all of the cooking liquid should have evaporated. Add grated cheese, mix well and serve immediately.

NOTES: Bay says that this technique will work with any kind of pasta, but I plan to stick to various forms of pastina: tubetti, orzo, quadretti, broken up fidelini and so on. Orzo is perhaps the best choice, at least if you want to imitate the look and feel of a true risotto. After all, the pasta known as orzo in the US is also called risoni, or 'big rice grains'. As for the liquid, as for risotto you can use any type of broth you like, or just water if the condimento is flavorful enough. 

And as far as the condimento is concerned, as for risotto, the possibilities are practically endless. Bay proposes a cacio e pepe (see this post for the pasta recipe) which eliminates the initial soffritto altogether, and like the pasta, calls for abundant pecorino and freshly ground pepper at the very end. He also proposes zucca (Italian pumpkin, usually substituted by butternut squash in the US, although I prefer baby yams), potato and provola cheese, and mussels with cherry tomatoes. As for risotto, the ratio of condimento to rice can vary, according to your taste and the nature of the condimento, from 1:1 to 1:2.

The term chiffonade, by the way, refers to a particular method of finely shredding leafy vegetables. Here's a useful video from the Rouxbe Online Cooking School demonstrating the technique:
 

Rouxbe Online Cooking School & Video Recipes

Despite his Anglo-Saxon name, by the way, Allan Bay is 100% Milanese born and bred. He got his name from his English father. He writes a regular column on food for the Corriere della Sera, perhaps Italy's most prestigious newspaper, and is a professor of cuisine at the University of Pavia. He is known as something of an iconoclast and, indeed, Cuochi si diventa is a rather quirky cookbook—definitely not for the traditionalist. Still and all, it is heartening to see my 'secret' technique for pasta endorsed by one of Italy's great gastronomes!

Angelina’s Lasagna di Carnevale

Among Angelina's generation, each of the female family members had a special dish that she was known for. My great-aunt, Angelina's sister, who we called zi'-zi' (loosely translated, 'auntie'), was the ravioli specialist. Another great-aunt, zi' Annin',  was known as "the little pie-maker" and yet another specialized in calzone pugliese, which we used to call 'onion pie'. Angelina, on the other hand, was known for her lasagna, which was almost always a part of our ritual Sunday dinners at her place. 

It was only later in life that I realized that the lasagna that Angelina made had a name, and was not really her lasagna, but a traditional dish from Campania, the region where she was born. There the dish is called lasagna di carnevale (also called lasagne di carnevale in the plural) since this meaty lasagna is traditionally eaten around Carnevale aka Mardi Gras time, as a last meat 'splurge' before the privations of Lent—a vestige of the days when Catholics were expected to give up meat for the entire 40 days. As I have mentioned before, this lasagna is one of the two 'mother' lasagna dishes in Italian cuisine, the rustic southern cousin to the North's elegant lasagna alla bolognese. Since most Italian immigrants to the US came from the South, it is this lasagna that will be most familiar to Italian-Americans.

Angelina's lasagna did have some subtle differences from the classic recipe, which I will point out later. But here is the way she made her lasagna:

Step 1: Make the ragù: This step should be done the day before, both because the ragù itself takes several hours to cook and because it tastes much better the next day. Angelina always used her signature ragù della domenica or Sunday sauce. Make sure that the ragù is not too thick—it should be quite loose—loose enough to pour easily—to account for evaporation as the dish bakes. Dilute with water if need be.

Step 2: Make the pasta: While lasagna di carnevale can be made with factory-made hard durum wheat lasagna, Angelina usually made her own fresh egg pasta (see this post for instructions). Unlike the pasta for lasagne alla bolognese, however, for this rustic dish you need to roll out your pasta rather thicker than usual; use setting '4' on most pasta machines. And I like to add a heaping spoonful of semolina flour for each 100g/1 cup of "OO" flour, to give the pasta a bit more 'bite'. Cut the pasta into large sheets that will fit into your baking pan. (I usually make mine big enough so that two sheets of lasagna will cover the entire pan.)

 Step 3: Make the polpettine: The lasagna is stuffed with, among other things, polpettine, or little tiny meatballs. You should use the same mixture of beef, pork, cheese, bread and seasonings as you would for polpettone, or Italian meatloaf (see this post for the recipe) but make the meatballs just as small as you possibly can, no more than 2-3cm/1 inch round, at most, smaller if you can manage it, remembering that they will be placed between the lasagna layers. Then shallow fry them in light olive oil until just golden brown. The recipe for zitoni al forno con le polpettine, or baked ziti, gives details on how to make these little meatballs.

 Step 4: Fry the sausage (optional): In a classic lasagna di carnevale, the stuffing also includes long, thin sausages called cervellatine. They don't make them outside Campania, as far as I know. If you don't have them, you can either omit them and just use more meatballs, or cut up some 'sweet' Italian sausages and fry them in olive oil. (Or just slice up some of the sausages from the ragù.) 

 Little meatballs and sausage pieces, fried and ready for the stuffing

Step 5: Make the ricotta cream and cut up the mozzarella: Take ricotta cheese (250g/8 oz.) and mix it well with 2-3 eggs, lots of grated parmesan cheese and a good handful of chopped parsley.to form a kind of 'cream'. Season with salt and pepper. 

 Take a large ball of fiordilatte (mozzarella made from cow's milk) and cut it into cubes. (NB: This is one dish where expensive imported mozzarella di bufala is not really necessary or even ideal.) 

Step 6: Cook the pasta sheets: Cook the lasagna sheets al dente, remembering that they will cook again in the oven. Since these sheets are thicker than the usual pasta and contain a bit of semolina, however, you will need to cook them for longer than other types of fresh pasta, say around 3-5 minutes, depending on how long they have been left to dry. If using factory-made pasta, follow the directions on the box. Do not crowd the lasagna or they may stick together; you may have to cook them in batches. When done, scoop them out with a slotted spoon and pat dry with a towel, taking care not to burn yourself with the hot water that will cling to the pasta sheets. 

Step 7: Assemble the dish: In a large baking or 'lasagna' dish, which you will have greased with lard or olive oil, spread a bit of the ragù over the bottom. Then cover the bottom with a layer of pasta. Since these pasta sheets are rather thick, avoid overlapping them. (You may have to trim the pasta with a knife or a pair of scissors, but that's fine.) Then cover the pasta with a generous layer of ragù. Top the ragù with the polpettine and, if using, the sausage pieces, and then with dabs of the ricotta cream here and there. (You can add more grated cheese if you like, but in Angelina's version, there is ample grated cheese in the ricotta cream.) Then place another layer of pasta and repeat, until you've used up your ingredients. Top with a generous dusting of grated parmesan cheese and a nice layer of ragù. Drizzle with olive oil.

Step 8: Bake the lasagna: Bake your lasagna in a moderately hot oven (180C, 350F) for about 45 minutes, until the top is just beginning to brown. (Some like a nice crusty top, but I don't and neither did Angelina.)

Step 9: Serving the lasagna: When done, remove the lasagna from the oven and allow to settle and cool for at least 30 minutes. In fact, Angelina almost always made her lasagna ahead and reheated it gently, which gave it a rather firm texture and allowed the flavors to meld beautifully. I still like it better that way. 

NOTES: As mentioned above, Angelina's version varies in a few details from the classic lasagna di carnevale as found in the 'old country'. First, she always used fresh pasta made from soft flour, while it more usual to use hard-wheat pasta. In fact, according to J.C. Francesconi, author of the much respected La cucina napoletana, hard wheat pasta is actually preferable. Second, she used her ragù della domenica, made from pork ribs and sausages, while the traditional lasagna di carnevale, according to Francesconi, has a somewhat different ragù, made from a single piece of pork roast and some pancetta. And some folks prefer a lighter ragù, cooked only for a few hours, rather than the dark ragù, cooked for six hours or more, that Angelina used. Third, Angelina used the ricotta cream described above, mixed with parmesan and egg, while the usual traditional recipes call for ricotta only, or sometimes loosened with some water. milk or ragù. 

And one thing that distinguished Angelina's lasagna from most Italian-American lasagna you will find: she was very discreet in her use of cheese. Most Italian-American lasagna comes oozing with ricotta and mozzarella. Angelina's was all about the ragù. And her use of a ricotta cream mixed with egg gave it a different, firmer texture. (There is, by the way, a delicious Neapolitan lasagna dish called lasagna alla ricotta, where cheese is the 'star', but that is a different matter.) 

There are subtle variations also in the way that the lasagna can be assembled. Some recipes (including Francesconi's) call for covering the pasta first with the ricotta, then adding the other cheeses and the meats, and lastly napping the whole with ragù. Other recipes call for mixing equal parts of ricotta and ragù together and layering this mixture on the pasta.

Francesconi also cites an interesting variation from Pozzuoli (a coastal town near Naples) where they add cut up bits of the local salami rather than the traditional cervatelline sausages and include hard-boiled eggs sliced into wedges. This is the version that is set out in another favorite cookbook, Napoli in bocca by Antonella Santolini. And in another delightful Neapolitan cookbook, Cucina napoletana: ricette raccontate, Martinella Penta de Peppo suggests using beef, rather than the more traditional pork, as a 'lighter' alternative for making the ragù. Rather than little meatballs and sausage, she suggests stuffing the lasagna with slices of the meat from the ragù rather than the usual meatballs and sausage, together with ricotta (loosened with a bit of water), ragù, mozzarella and grated parmesan cheese.

Risotto all’indivia belga

Risotto is one of my 'go to' dishes when I don't feel like cooking anything elaborate. That may sound odd: risotto has a reputation for being a lot of work and easy to get wrong. And yes, when done badly, risotto can be a rather goopy mess. But it is not really very hard to learn the right technique and, if you use a pressure cooker, it takes no time at all to make. And one of my favorite winter vegetables, Belgian endive, makes one of my favorite winter risotti. In my version, its slight bitterness is balanced by the sweetness of butter and cream, and enhanced by the savory of freshly grated parmesan cheese. It's a nice, elegant choice for a Valentine's Day candle-light dinner. 

After sweating some thinly sliced onion in butter and a bit of oil over gentle heat, add Belgian endive that has been trimmed, sliced down the middle and then thinly sliced across to produce a kind of chiffonade. Mix well and cover, allow the endive to braise with the onions until they are well reduced and have absorbed the flavors of the onion and butter. Do not allow them to brown.

Uncover and raise the heat a bit, add your rice (see below) and proceed in the usual fashion for making a risotto, lightly 'toasting' the rice, then bathing it with a splash white wine and then adding a rich, home-made broth, one ladleful at a time, until the rice is just al dente. (If using a pressure cooker, add all the broth all at once.) Add a bit of cream just before the rice is done, then, off heat, proceed to mantecare with grated parmesan cheese and, if you want a really rich dish, a dab of sweet butter. 

NOTES: Instructions for making risotto, both the old-fashioned way and in a pressure cooker, can be found in this post. 

While I used to use Arborio rice in the past for making risotto, just because it's the easiest to find and also the least expensive of the three types of rice that lend themselves to a risotto treatment, I recently splurged and bought some vialone nano rice and was instantly converted! It has the incredible ability to absorb flavor—and that is, of course, what the risotto technique is all about—while not losing its texture. And it produces a creamy, but never stodgy, risotto every time. I highly recommend it. Vialone nano is a bit shorter than Arborio, almost round in fact. It is typical of the Veneto and recommended for risotti mantecati, less appropriate for soups. 

The use of cream in risotti is not all that common—some even consider it taboo—and I am not keep on adding it too aggressively or too often. But in this dish, it works very well and, as I said, helps to balance out the bitterness of the indivia belga. I also like to use cream in a few other risotti, including ones made with radicchio, zucca and spinach, all vegetables that have a natural affinity for dairy products.

Angelina's Fried Vegetables

I was feeling sort of nostalgic today for the fried vegetables my grandmother used to make. They were almost always the start of our family's six-hour Sunday dinners, laid out (along with a big wedge of provolone) on the table to pick on as we played cards and waited for the main event. Hmmm, they disappeared fast! There's a saying in Italian: fritte son bone anche le scarpe, even shoes taste good when they're fried. And it's so true.

Fried vegetables are not at all hard to make, but they can be time consuming, as the various vegetables need to be peeled and cut up, then parboiled, and then fried. One way to cut down on this work is to use frozen vegetables, which respond very well to this treatment. And, in the US at least, the quality of frozen vegetables is often comparable, in some cases superior, to that of fresh ingredients (see below). Today we had artichoke hearts, cauliflower florets and asparagus, all of which come already parboiled and cut into pieces. All you need to do is let them defrost, then roll them in flour, dip them in a mixture of eggs beaten with finely chopped parsley, salt, pepper and just a bit of grated pecorino cheese. Shallow fry them gently in a mixture of olive and canola oils (or in a light olive oil) until they turn a light golden brown.

The oil should be about 1/2 inch (1 cm) or so deep, or enough to come about halfway up the pieces. Make sure that the oil is just hot enough so that it gently bubbles around the pieces as you place them into the pan. If the oil is not hot enough, the vegetables will turn out greasy; too hot and the egg batter will brown before the insides of the vegetable pieces are fully cooked. (It is a bit like making fried chicken, if you've done that.) You then drain the vegetables, either on a plate lined with paper towels or--my preferred method--on a cooling rack placed over a baking sheet to catch the oil and stray bits of batter. You'll need to fry a few pieces at a time, as many as will fit comfortably in your frying pan without crowding. (If you crowd them, they will steam, and get soggy and greasy.) Keep your already fried vegetables warm in the oven while you are frying the rest.

Sprinkle the fried vegetables with salt and serve either hot or at room temperature. I promise, they're addictive!

NOTE: The vegetables mentioned above were the ones that Angelina made most often. But other vegetables are also great fried like this, including broccoli, peppers and--my personal favorite--eggplant. In fact, this is the way you fry eggplant to make a parmigiana di melanzane, eggplant parmesan, or at least the way Angelina used to make it.

As mentioned, however sacrilegious it may seem, when I don't have access to best quality fresh vegetables, I am a fan of using frozen vegetables for this dish, especially for the ones that require parboiling and cutting up, like cauliflower, artichoke, broccoli or even asparagus. (Vegetables like eggplant and peppers, of course, are another story.) Frankly, I find that, in the US at least, frozen vegetables can equally good, if not better, than 'fresh' vegetables that have been picked before they are ripe, shipped across country and force-ripened by gas or whatever other artificial means modern industry has devised, and then left to sit on a supermarket shelf for however long. Frozen vegetables are picked at their best and freezing preserves them that way. Of course, not all vegetables freeze well. Eggplant and peppers, and summer vegetables in general, are not very good frozen. Potatoes take on an 'off' flavor when frozen. But for many other vegetables, frozen are a viable and practical alternative.

Another way to fry vegetables is to substitute parmesan for the pecorino and, after the egg bath, cover the vegetables pieces in bread crumbs. It produces a more 'refined' dish--but I like this way better. It brings me back to my childhood.

If you have any of the egg mixture left over, by the way, don't throw it out. Mix it with some breadcrumbs and pour into the pan like so much pancake batter and fry until golden brown. It's the best part!

These fried vegetables are basically a kind of vegetarian fritto misto, as befits a modest country gal like Angelina. Italian cuisine abounds in fritti misti--the 'fried course' was once a standard part of a complete Italian dinner--and there are many regional versions of the fritto misto. My personal favorite, found  in coastal areas all over Italy, is the fritto misto di mare, which we have already featured here. In Rome, they make a wonderful fritto misto alla romana with calf's brains and artichokes. In Piemonte, they make an elaborate fritto misto with many different meats, crochette and vegetables. In Bologna, the gran fritto misto features bits of mortadella, cheese, semolina croquettes and even 'fried cream' (pastry cream enriched and thickened with egg yolk). 

Gnocchi al gorgonzola

 

It's Thursday, and the Romans out there will know that Thursdays in Rome (and perhaps in the rest of Italy, I'm not entirely sure…) is gnocchi day: giovedi' gnocchi as the saying goes. Today's offering is gnocchi with gorgonzola sauce. This incredibly rich and unctuous dish is made by melting butter with cream and letting it reduce until it gets to a saucy consistency. You then lower the heat and add a good hunk of crumbled gorgonzola cheese, allow it to melt, then add your just-cooked gnocchi (for home-made gnocchi, see recipe here) and let them simmer a bit to absorb a bit of the flavor, add a generous amount of grated parmesan cheese, mix and serve immediately. It's that simple--if using store-bought gnocchi, the dish takes about 10 minutes to make.

For me, creaminess is the essence of gnocchi al gorgonzola, so when I make it, I like to 'drown' the gnocchi in lots of sauce. It's a personal preference, not one that is necessary 'doc'. The resulting dish, needless to say, is very rich, so a little bit goes a long way. It is so substantial, in fact, that it can serve as a piatto unico followed by a green salad and a piece of fruit.

 

NOTES: Although the recipe is simplicity itself, there are a few pointers to bear in mind. Gorgonzola comes in two varieties: gorgonzola piccante, which is aged longer, resulting in a firmer texture and sharper taste, and gorgonzola dolce which is young, creamy and quite mild in flavor. You want the dolce version for this dish if you can find it. (For some reason, it is much easier to find the piccante here in the US, just the opposite of the case in Italy.) For tonight's dinner, however, I couldn't find the 'right' kind so I settled for piccante--not quite as unctuous but it the taste was perfectly acceptable. You could experiment with other kinds of blue cheeses as well; I've never tried it myself but I suspect that a semi-soft cheese like morbier (removing the rind, of course) would be quite nice.

In Italy, there are two kinds of cream sold: panna per cucinare (meaning 'cooking cream') and panna da montare ('whipping cream'). The former is used, as the name suggests, in cooked dished that call for cream. It is quite thick and if you're using it for this dish, there's no need for the initial reduction mentioned above. Heavy cream sold in the States has the same texture as panna da montare. I have never seen 'cooking cream' here.

 

As with many well-known dishes, there are lots of variations on the basic recipe. For a bit of color, try adding chopped parsley or chives along with the parmesan at the very end. Gorgonzola goes very well with both walnuts and radicchio, so you can add either (or both, I suppose) to the sauce. The radicchio you would shred and saute in the butter at the outset before adding the cream. The walnuts you would chop finely and along with the gorgonzola after the cream has reduced. And a good grinding of freshly ground pepper, at the very end, makes for an 'earthier' dish. I have seen more 'creative' variations, like adding pears (another classic pairing with gorgonzola) or--believe it or not--saffron. I haven't tried either of these, nor frankly am I particularly tempted to do so.

You can also use this sauce with pasta, preferably a 'stubby' pasta like rigatoni or penne. (I suspect that long pasta like spaghetti would tend to stick together and make for something rather gluey rather than creamy.) And, if you like, you can dot the finished dish with butter and run it under the broiler until lightly browned on top. In this case, you can substitute béchamel for the cream if you like. (This treatment works with pasta. I've never seen gnocchi made this way, but I suppose you could try it.)

One final thought: Italian cooking, as you may know, is very seasonal. You could make this dish any time of year, but I associate this kind of thing with cooler weather, when you crave its rich, stick-to-the-ribs quality. It would be overwhelming in warm or hot weather.For those who are in summer right now, you'd probably prefer to have something a bit lighter like gnocchi with pesto instead.

Zuppa di orzo

Italian cuisine is known for pasta and risotto and polenta and, to a lesser extent, for farro. But did you know that Italians also enjoy barley? Here is a simple, basic barley soup that is both healthy, appetizing and, if made in a pressure cooker, can be prepared in under 30 minutes.

Begin by sautéing a soffritto of onion, carrot, celery and, if you like, a little pancetta in olive oil, taking care not to let them brown. When the vegetables have softened, add your barley (50g /2 oz. per person is a good portion as a first course). Allow the barley to insaporire as you would for a risotto, then add water or broth to cover generously, at least 1 liter (4 cups) of liquid per 100g (4 oz.) of barley. (NB: Barley absorbs a lot of liquid as it cooks.) Simmer covered for 45 minutes or until tender, stirring from time to time and adding water or broth as needed. The result should be a very thick soup, almost a porridge, but not entirely dry. Serve immediately, topped with un filo d'olio. Have some grated cheese on the side for those who like it.

If using a pressure cooker, bring up to pressure, lower the heat to a minimum and cook for 15 minutes, then release the pressure. When you open the cooker, check for liquid: if it has been entirely absorbed, add more water or broth and let simmer for a few minutes more. If there is too much liquid (less likely, given barley's aborptive qualities) then just let is simmer until you have reached the proper consistency.

NOTES: This is the very basic 'mother' recipe for barley soup. There are lots of variations you can try, including the use of fresh herbs of your choice in the soffritto—parsley, rosemary and sage are particularly nice. Some recipes call for the addition of other vegetables, perhaps most commonly potato or pumpkin but also with leafy winter vegetables like kale or cabbage. Beans of all kinds—cannellini, borlotti, ceci, lentils, even peas—are also a very common addition, and turn this primo into a perfectly rounded piatto unico.

Beef broth, of course, is probably the best choice for making this soup, but it is perfectly lovely with vegetable broth or even just water. Chicken broth, on the other hand, while a possible choice, in my opinion does not really pair very well with barley. Some recipes call for soaking barley for a few hours before cooking to soften it. I find this step entirely unnecessary, at least with the barley that is sold commercially here in the US.

For this particular soup, instead of pancetta, I used a ham bone that I had left over (believe it or not!) from Christmas dinner. It gave a wonderful porky flavor to the soup. If using a ham bone, fish it out of the soup before serving and scrape off any meat. But the meat up into small pieces and add it to the soup.

Besides this stick-to-the-ribs winter soup, orzo also appears on Italian tables in the warmer months as a salad. It's quite a versatile grains!

Orzo, by the way, is also the name of a popular soup pasta, so be careful if Googling for recipes.

 

Polenta pasticciata con fagioli e verza

It's a shame to throw away leftover polenta. There are so many delicious ways to use it. As mentioned in an earlier post on how to make polenta, it hardens as it cools and can be sliced into squares or other shapes, then grilled or fried. But my favorite way to use leftover polenta is to layer polenta slices with sauce and baked them like a kind of rustic lasagne. This polenta pasticciata uses a kind of polenta that I have not yet blogged about: polenta that is made in the usual way, but about halfway through cooking, you add Savoy cabbage that has been shredded and sweated in butter with some finely sliced onion until quite soft. Then, just a few minutes before serving, you stir in some boiled beans (preferably borlotti, but I used some cannellini that I had on hand). It is one of my favorite of the 'flavored' polentas. This polenta is so flavorful that it needs no sauce. 

When using leftover polenta to make polenta pasticciata con fagioli e verza, you place a layer of polenta at the bottom of a buttered baking dish, then top it with a generous layer of béchamel sprinkled with a bit of grated parmesan cheese. Repeat until you've used up your ingredients and end with a nice layer of béchamel topped with a generous sprinkling of grated parmesan cheese. Bake in a hot oven (200C, 400F) for about 15-20 minutes, until the top is nicely browned and the sauce and cheese are bubbling merrily along. Let the polenta rest a few minutes to cool off and 'settle' before serving. 

NOTES: I rather like making this polenta pasticciata in individual terracotta bowls, of the kind that you eat minestrone or French onion soup in. If you do, placing all the bowls on cookie sheet, so they can all be put in and taken out of the oven at one time, will save you some time and trouble. It also makes for a lovely presentation, as each diner gets to dig into their crusty polenta themselves. 

If you like, use another kind of cheese, such as a fontina or a gruyère, instead of or in addition to the parmesan. 

There are many types of polenta pasticciata: Perhaps the most popular is to layer your polenta is like lasagna alla bolognese, with alternating layers of béchamel and ragù. But there are other ways to make polenta pasticciata, alla lombara, for example: layered with fontina cheese and topped with lots of melted cheese before baking in a hot oven until golden brown or alla tirolese—Tyrolean baked polenta—layered with anchovy butter. 

There are also many types of flavored polentas, including a Tuscan one, very similar to this one, called polenta con fagioli e cavolo nero, made with beans and 'black kale', usually called Tuscan kale in English. Tuscan kale is a typically Tuscan green that is used in countless soups and other dishes. I have occasionally found it in farmer's markets and even, once or twice, in my local supermarket. Its leaves are rather flatter and longer, and more tender, than the curly kale you are likely to find elsewhere. But I digress… we have another month or two of cold weather, and many polenta dishes to blog about!

 

 

How to make béchamel sauce

Béchamel sauce, which is essentially nothing more than milk thickened with a roux, is widely used in northern Italian cooking. It is not usually used as a 'sauce' per se but rather as a component in baked primi like lasagne alla bolognese, cannelloni, polenta pasticciata or crespelle al forno. It is therefore an important part of any Italian cook's repertoire. Fortunately, it is quick and (with a little practice) quite easy to make. 

For most Italian dishes, where the sauce will be layered into a pasta dish that will later be baked, you want to make a rather loose béchamel sauce as follows: 

Step 1: Melt a stick of butter (100g, 4 oz.) in a saucepan, then add six spoonfuls (50g, 2 oz.) of flour and simmer the resulting roux over medium low heat for a few minutes, taking care not to allow the roux to darken, and remove from the heat.

Step 2: In a separate saucepan, bring a liter (one quart) of milk just barely to a boil.

Step 3: Immediately pour the milk into the pan with the roux. Taking a whisk, whip the roux and milk together vigorously, then put the saucepan back on the heat and bring it up to the boil. It will thicken considerably when it gets to the boiling point.

Step 4: As soon as the sauce begins to boil, lower the heat to low and simmer for about 5-10 minutes, seasoning well with salt and a bit of nutmeg to taste. 

Alternative method: I find the above method is practically fool-proof. But if you prefer not to dirty an extra saucepan and are fairly skilled in the kitchen, could can skip Step 2 and as for Step 3, add cold milk, not all at once, but in a thin stream, as you whisk the roux vigorously. This, in fact, is the method you will find specified in most Italian recipe books. While it is less trouble, you do need a fair degree of skill (and a strong arm) to avoid lumps. 

NOTES: The main tricks to making a good béchamel include, first of all, cooking the roux well, or else your sauce will wind up tasting like raw flour—not very nice—without darkening the roux, which will give it an unpleasant burnt taste. (There are recipes where you want a brown roux, but this is not one of them.) So regulate the heat carefully; I also often add a bit of oil (not olive oil) which helps the butter not burning.  

Second, use enough butter to give the end result a nice color and flavor. The roux should not clump up but remain a rather liquid paste that covers the bottom of the saucepan.  If you find your roux is too thick, just add more butter or oil.  

Third, and perhaps most important of all, avoid lumps, which can occur if the roux does not fully amalgamate with the milk. Both methods indicated above are designed to avoid a lumpy sauce, but the alternative method does require some skill and a strong hand to keep that whisk beating as you pour in the milk. Keeping your roux rather liquid helps as well. (If you do wind up with lumps, all is not lost: you can always pass the sauce through a fine mesh sieve or mix it in a blender.)  

Finally, allowing the béchamel to simmer for a few minutes over gentle heat develops its flavor, but be careful not to allow it to thicken too much. As mentioned, for most Italian recipes you want a rather loose béchamel. Remember that the sauce will cook and reduce further in the oven, and will be absorbed by the pasta, so you want a loose consistency, just a bit thicker than heavy cream. If the sauce thickens too much, whisk in a bit more milk. The sauce will also thicken up as it cools, so bring it back up to heat and/or add more milk to thin it out before using it.

According to most sources, béchamel is a French sauce, invented in the 17^th century by La Varenne, chef to Louis XIV, and named in honor of the Louis de Béchamel, marquis of Nointel, who is sometimes erroneously identified as its inventor. Some Italian authorities like Giuliano Bugialli maintain that béchamel was invented by Italians, derived from the Florentine salsa colla and, like some many things, reputed to have been brought to France by Caterina de' Medici. (I sometimes wonder how big her caravan must have been to have been able to have carried so many, many items to her new country!) As for salsa colla, I have not yet been able to find much out about its origins or uses. If you look at some of the classic recipe books from earlier times, for example by Bartolomeo Scappi (1500-1577) or Martino di Como (15th century), the common thickeners were bread or breadcrumbs or, believe it or not, crushed almonds, not a roux. Perhaps some reader can enlighten us?

A Word of Thanks

 

Dear readers, 

Just a quick word to let you know that Memorie di Angelina now has well over 2000 followers via email, readers and various social networks, up from 1500 only about a month ago. I wanted to express my sincerest thanks for your readership. It's what makes the time and effort worthwhile! Angelina is no doubt smiling down at all of you!

Abbracci,
Frank

Pasta e fagioli

Pasta e fagioli, or pasta and beans, which goes by the amusing nickname 'pasta fazool' in Italian-American slang, is one of the most internationally famous dishes in the entire Italian repertoire.  It is, however, a victim of its own success, and is too often made badly, very badly, which is why I would never order this dish in a restaurant outside Italy. The real thing, however, is not at all hard to make at home. In fact, it is a great standby for weeknights where you don't have much time and need to whip up something quickly. And the results are really wonderful on a cold winter night. 

There are lots of authentic variations on the dish, but here is the way I like to make it:

Fry some pancetta, cut up into cubes or lardons, in olive oil until just beginning to brown, then add a few lightly crushed garlic cloves and a spring of fresh rosemary. (You can also add a peperoncino at this point if you like some spice.) Just when you start to smell the garlic and rosemary, add some crushed tomatoes (I just add one or two plus a little juice, just enough to lightly color the soup and add a little flavor) and simmer until the tomatoes have separated from the oil. Then add your drained cooked (or canned) cannellini beans, allow them to simmer for a minute or two to insaporire (absorb the flavors of the tomato and other ingredients) and then add water (or broth) and partially cooked pasta (see below). Continue simmering, squashing some of the beans against the side of the pot so that they 'melt' into the liquid and thicken it, until the pasta is fully cooked. I like to mix in a bit of grated pecorino cheese to enrich the soup before serving . Serve topped with you choice of additional grated cheese, freshly ground pepper and/or un filo d'olio.

NOTES: There are, as always, quite a few variations to this dish. First of all, if you prefer a vegetarian dish, you can omit the pancetta, which I often do. And if you wish to 'veganize' it, don't use cheese either. Or you can use crumbed sausage meat instead of the pancetta, if you want some meat flavor but can't find pancetta. Salt pork also works well, as does something called 'country ham'. Regular cooked ham, however, does not give you the right flavor for this dish, IMHO. You can make the soup even meatier by using broth, but I find that with all the other flavors going on, water is not only acceptable but preferable. If you've made the beans yourself, do use the cooking water from the beans, which have wonderful flavor.

You can also use other kinds of beans. In fact, just about any legume could do, although most typical would be a bean like pinto or cranberry beans. Chickpeas are wonderful in this dish, in which case you will have made a pasta e ceci. In our family pasta and lentils are typically made a different way, as a pasta asciutta rather than a soup, but you might want to try it made this way and see what it's like. By the way, canned beans are perfectly acceptable, but do remember to drain and wash them well. The canning liquid would otherwise give the dish an 'off', artificial taste. One legume that I would not try this way are peas; their flavor is too delicate to stand up to such a robust, rustic treatment. Try instead this delicate pasta e piselli dish with just onions, parsley and broth.

And, of course, the choice of pasta can vary, although small, stubby pastas work best. I personally like ditali (as shown above) but small shells or 'elbows' would work well. In Italy, it is very common to use the odds and ends of different pastas you have around, called pasta mista--it's a great way to use up those last few pieces of pasta that inevitably wind up at the bottom of the box. Collect them in a towel or bag, then smash them with meat pounder or the back of a skillet to reduce them all to about the same small size. Some recipes call for adding the pasta directly to the soup pot without pre-cooking them. If you do that, however, be careful; I find that the pasta inevitably sticks to the bottom of the pot and can burn. And be sure to add quite a bit extra water as the pasta will absorb it readily as it cooks. 

As I mentioned, this soup is all too often subject to culinary abuse. If you want to be authentic, by the way, the soup should not be brothy, as you will often see when this and other pasta and legume dishes (including minestrone) are made outside Italy. Rather, you should end up with a thick soup that is almost a stew. And ignore recipes that use this soup as a dumping ground for all sorts of extraneous dried herbs or overwhelm the other flavors with too much tomato. And this recipe, supposedly from the Olive Garden restaurant chain, is a true monstrosity, more of a bad chili than an Italian soup.

You can also make a milder, more 'refined' dish by making a different kind of flavoring base or soffritto of onion, carrot and celery rather than garlic, rosemary and red pepper, in which case you can substitute parmesan for the pecorino. Personally, I prefer this heartier, earthier version.

Coniglio alla cacciatora

Rabbit is a wonderful meat, leaner but yet tastier than most chicken you'll find in these days of industrial agriculture. Many people (at least in the US) have an aversion to eating rabbit, but it is quite popular in Italy, Spain, France and elsewhere in Europe. And why not? Those furry creatures make great eating. 

One of my favorite ways of making rabbit is alla cacciatora, or 'hunter's style'. The term, one of the most widely used in Italian cuisine (and is often associated with Tuscany) encompasses many variations. The original meaning referred to a way of making game, of course. Dishes made alla cacciatora are generally some sort of spezzatino, which is to say, unboned meat cut into smallish pieces that are subjected to dry heat and then moist heat cooking. Vinegar is often used either as part of a marinade or as a braising liquid, as its acidity helps to 'cut' the strong flavor of the game meat. These days, dishes alla cacciatora are, more often than not, made in rosso—with tomato, either puréed or in concentrate, but tomato being a relatively recent addition to Italian cuisine (a fact that astonishes many) the original recipe, lost in the mists of time, surely did not include it. This version does not include vinegar but the smoother taste of red wine, and it contains just a little bit of tomato concentrate. 

You start by cutting up your rabbit. It is done very much like you cut up a chicken, as the bone structure of a rabbit is quite similar. Like a chicken, you start by separating thighs and legs (two sets rather than one) from the carcass. But you will quickly notice a few differences. First of all, rabbit bones, though quite thin, are much harder than chicken bones, so you'll need to strong knife or cleaver to cut through them. And the body of the rabbit is quite a bit longer; it has a mid-section called the 'saddle' rather than a breast, running along its backbone than needs to be cut into sections. For a detailed description of how to cut up a rabbit, see this useful article.

Begin cooking by sautéing a soffritto of finely chopped garlic, rosemary and sage in olive oil, over gentle heat in a large sauté or braising pan or casserole, preferably of terracotta or enameled cast iron. When the soffritto is just lightly golden, raise the heat to medium high, add the rabbit pieces and turn them so that they are even coated with the aromatics. Sauté the rabbit until it, too, is lightly golden on all sides. Then season with salt, black pepper and red pepper flakes. Pour over some red wine and allow the wine to evaporate completely.

Add about 2 tablespoons of best-quality tomato paste in about a cup of water, along with a bay leaf, to the pan. Mix well, lower the heat again to a very gentle simmer, cover the pan and let the rabbit braise for about 20-30 minutes. Add a bit more water if the pot dried out. When the dish is done, the rabbit should be quite tender and the sauce, being quite reduced, should coat the rabbit pieces. Serve hot. 

NOTES: Like most spezzatini, this dish can be made ahead and, in fact, tastes even better when it is. 

As mentioned above, there are many different methods that go by the name alla cacciatora. Perhaps the most common involves chicken and begins with a classic soffritto italiano—made of onion, carrot and celery like a French mirepoix—rather than garlic and herbs and then simmered in tomato sauce. (Here's a typical version demonstrated in a video. Pancetta is sometimes added to the soffritto for extra depth of flavor, a good idea with today's bland chickens. It can be excellent eating if you don't drown the dish in tomato, as if all too often the case. Artusi's version calls for a soffritto of onion only, sautéed in lard and simmered in red wine and just a half cup of tomato. There is a wonderful baby lamb dish made with a paste made out of garlic, rosemary and anchovies diluted with a bit of vinegar. 

Rabbit is a great meat. Besides making it alla cacciatora, it is also lovely simply roasted or grilled with garlic and herbs, boned and stuffed, as part of a bollito misto, or in any number of spezzatini. In fact, just about any chicken recipe can be used for rabbit. Rabbit can be hard to find, but if you have access to an Italian butcher, ask for it. I have also seen rabbit in some Asian supermarkets here in the States.

This recipe is an adaption of the recipe for pollo alla cacciatora in The Fine Art of Italian Cooking by G. Bugialli.

Polenta con salsicce e spuntature

Rome is not especially known for its love of polenta, perhaps because its winters are relatively mild compared with those up in true polenta country skirting the southern rim of the Alps, but there is one polenta dish you are bound to find if you visit Rome in the cold weather months, polenta with sausages and spareribs simmered in tomato sauce. 

You make the sugo very much as if you were making a southern-style ragù, only you use only 'sweet' sausages and pork spareribs. Start out, as usual, with a soffritto, this one of onion and, if you like, a bit of garlic sautéed gently in olive oil or (better) lard until soft and translucent. Turn up the heat a bit and add your sausages and spareribs. (I fine that one rib and one sausage per person is a healthy portion for a moderate appetite, but you may want to a add few more of each in case someone wants seconds.) Allow the meat to brown lightly. Depending on the size of the pot and how much meat you are using, you may need to do the browning in batches to avoid crowding them. Once lightly browned, season with salt and pepper, and then pour over a nice slurp of red wine and allow it to evaporate. Then add enough tomato purée (in the US, use 'crushed' canned tomatoes or whole canned tomatoes passed through the largest holes of a food mill) to cover the meat. Lower the heat and cover. Let the sugo simmer for a good hour or more, until the meat is tender and the sauce is nice and thick and rich. 

Meanwhile, make your polenta in the usual fashion. 

When you are ready to eat, pour the polenta on to a large serving bowl or—if you really want to eat it in the traditional manner—on a wooden board. Make a small well in the center with a wooden spoon and into the well place your meat, covered with a generous lathering of sugo. Serve with grated pecorino cheese. 

NOTES: You can use white wine instead of red if you prefer (or simply omit the wine altogether if you like). Some recipes call for a soffritto of the 'holy trinity' of onion, carrot and celery, but I prefer this onion and garlic only version. If you like, you can also add some parsley to the soffritto. Some recipes also call for adding a bit of tomato paste (a tablespoon or two) for added flavor. Some recipes also call for some optional peperoncino. 

A number of sources will tell you to use fioretto type polenta, which results in a rather soft polenta. It is true that in central and southern Italy—Lazio, Abruzzo and Campania in particular—there is a preference for softer polenta than is normally eaten in the North. (My grandmother Angelina's polenta was quite soft indeed, almost like a porridge.) But I personally find that this hearty sauce goes better with 'normal' bramata type polenta, cooked rather stiff. Of course, the choice is yours.